About Hollylu


Hollylu Coon

 Wife-Mother-Teacher-Reforming Control Freak-Speaker-Pediatric Specialist-Author-Counselor-Deposed  Dictator-Coffee Junkie

I’m way too selfish to be a “good Christian”.  I want to be in charge.  Of everything.  My life, my kids, my job, my husband.  Everything.  For years, I trotted off to church willing to work hard for the kingdom.  I loved God and wanted to serve Him, even to the point of agreeing to use glitter glue with the three’s class.  But surrender was another deal.  Not real surrender.  People who surrender to God end up working in the African dirt.  They end up with no control.  I didn’t want to go to Africa.  Call me shallow.  I wanted to go to Walmart.  

This is the holding pattern I circled in for 30 years of sturdy Christian living.  Until God busted me loose from my “church lady-ness”.  He sprung me from the slammer of my own selfish heart.   Freed me from my unrealistic expectations, record keeping, and rule-following and let me run with loving abandon.  And now I’m NOT willing to settle for anything less than the FULL life He promised.

My teaching, speaking, parenting and playing revolve around living the free life.   At home, my husband Mike (my superhero for 26 years) rejoices in my shift from “raging dictator” to “slightly less selfish albeit completely inept at laundry” homemaker.   My kids, Annalee and Teddy are in the teen years with a mother solidly behind them- even if she can’t use the cool functions on the phone or get the pick-up time right.  She knows how to pray.  And how to make brownies.  And for now, that’s enough.

At work, I continue to serve amazing families in my role as a speech-language pathologist.  Twenty some odd years later, I better understand how much I don’t know.  Each patient is unique.  All nervous systems are different.  Communication is a puzzle that doesn’t come with prewritten instructions.  And making progress takes a lot of hard work – so it better have some fun thrown in.  If at all possible, don’t fight the nervous system.  It’s like swimming upstream or hiking up hill (with a rock in your shoe).  All of my teaching and therapy involves “avoiding extra work” by discovering what the body needs and/or craves.   Go for the easy answer first by treating the environment, the nervous system, and then the behavior, in that order.

My favorite thing to do is to sneak away and speak to women.  Life doesn’t have to be “this drudge march”.  God promises more.  His call was never to perfection.  His call is to surrender.  It’s all about the real.  Real people.  Real life.  Real God.  I love speaking to parents and teachers (especially dads wearing that “OMG where did I lose control” expression).  Children are the absolute best at keeping us humble while fostering our understanding that it is possible to physically ache with love.

I’d be thrilled by the opportunity to come speak to your organization!  The “free life” involves daily discipline.  Unfortunately, “staying real” isn’t easy.   But if treated with proper amounts of seriousness and milk-out-your-nose laughing, our time on this planet, cradle to grave, can be filled with adventure – and joy.


Hollylu    7  <  8


More about Hollylu…

Hollylu resides in the bustling metropolis of Puyallup, WA.   She is the author of “The Girlfriend’s Guide to Getting Real with God” and, “The Bible in 3D”, life application Bible Studies for women.  When not at work, she avoids doing laundry by hanging out at Starbucks.  Hollylu is a Bible Study teacher at her home church, Lighthouse Christian Center.  She speaks over 40 times per year and is a frequent keynote speaker at women’s retreats and conferences, MOPS and parenting groups, and women’s events. Her presentation style is light-hearted, packed with facts, and very interactive.   She is now booking for 2017-18.  Due to family commitments, she is limited to two-weekend engagements per month. Talk times average 45 minutes unless otherwise specified. Each talk includes “talk notes” and/or handouts as appropriate.  Discussion questions are available upon request.

Hollylu is a pediatric speech/language pathologist with over 20 years of experience specializing in birth-to-three development.  She has a Masters of Science from Washington University and maintains ASHA’s Certificate of Clinical Competence and Washington state licensure.   She is currently the Pediatric Rehabilitation Coordinator for Good Samaritan Hospital in addition to keeping a limited private practice.  Hollylu treats from a neural development perspective. Additional credentials and training include Hanen, PROMPT, RDI, and DIR/Floortime, and NDT.  Through teaching engagements, Hollylu offers hands-on training and instruction to teachers, staff, and parents in the areas of communication development, classroom management, and treating sensory-based behavior issues.  She presents to childcare facilities, preschools, developmental centers and parenting groups with a limit of four engagements per month.  Hollylu is privately insured.

Share and Enjoy

Recent Posts

Rag Time and Dry Bones: The Real Reason I Didn’t Send a Christmas Letter


image1Christmas Eve 2015. It’s 2 AM. My son is pounding out last year’s piano recital piece at 140 decibels. I’m upstairs with our houseguest who is off his time schedule and is amazingly chatty despite the hour.

“Wow.” My guest pauses in the middle of his thought and listens to the discordant melody below. “He’s really getting into it.”

“Yes. Hmmm. We encourage lots of practicing.” I say. Like a thirteen year old busting down the house with Scott Joplin tunes at two in the morning on Christmas Eve is the most normal thing ever. I raise my voice and shout over the din. “It’s Christmassy.” I try to look casual. “Sort of.” The scent of burning wood wafts up the stairs. Below, doors crash open and I hear shattering glass.

I don’t blame Teddy. He started out with some nice Beethoven. But his sister was hissing and flailing her arms. “Louder. Louder. We don’t want them to hear the drilling.”
And by drill, she means drill. Her Dad’s power drill. Because my husband was grinding wood screws into our 18 year old couch. On Christmas Eve. At two in the morning. While I fluffed pillows and chit-chatted with the first overnight guest we’d had in forever. Sweet. Baby. MOSES.

It seems, the couch had achieved total breakdown.

Breakdown. I closed my eyes. Irritated was not the word.

Breakdown. How dare the couch (a faithful servant and supportive family member for nigh on two decades) breakdown? Breaking down is not allowed. And in possibly the most ridiculously hilarious moment to ever occur in my star crossed history of domestic effort, I felt… nothing.

Because here’s the deal. If you put off breaking down, shutting down is all you have left. When a piece of furniture has more courage and integrity that you do, well, you’re one sad sack. A numb sad sack.

2015 I shut down the emotion. It seemed like the right thing to do.

It was logical. No one wants a volcano of emotion calling the shots. Isn’t that what we are taught? Buckle up. Suck it up. Fight hard. Get it done. Just do it. Very few motivational posters promote having a good cry in the corner.

Pull the plug. In the face of unrelenting pain and sadness, shutting down, especially as a parent, as the one not dying, as the one not burying your spouse, as the one who still has to get the kids to school, this feels right. Breaking down is not an option. To prevent insanity, shutdown wins.

There’s just one problem.

Shutdown is all encompassing. Shutting out pain and fear leaves joy suspended as well. And humor. Not dark, bitter humor, but the humor that sees ninja-mission-to-repair-the-couch-in-the-middle-of-the-night-on-Christmas-Eve is something to be CELEBRATED. That kind of humor. Life sustaining. It was missing. And when humor dries up, hope is scarce as well.

I haven’t blogged in a kabillion years. Because nothing inspired me. Who wants to blog about marching up hill? In the rain? With rocks in your shoes? Our family fought cancer and we didn’t beat it. It beat us. To pieces. And I was slowly blinded. Golden Retriever, shallow-loving, goof offs like me have no natural defense for sadness of this caliber. Aging and death and dying moved in. And the pillars of this family, the stalwarts of my life, were displaced. The bitterness of knowing safety is an illusion loomed right outside our door. And I was thrust into the role of the strong one.

So. I write this as a form of apology. To my friends who have been shut out. Piles of unopened Christmas cards still sit on my table. I don’t look at Facebook. I can’t even remember my email password. I was in sad-sack shutdown. And to my family. I’m so sorry. I was busy doing. Running. Driving. Bailing the water from our sinking ship. I know I hurt you with my non-response response. But I continued to feed you and wash your clothes. So there’s that.

And to God. Forgive me. My sweet precious Savior and Friend. For shutting you out. Because I was too tired to have our old argument. Where you are God and I am not. I know the Bible verses, Lord. I just didn’t have the energy to live them. All I could see was waves of pain stretching into the future. Probably bigger than this one. And how would we survive?

Then the couch exploded.

Gave up the ghost. Literally. Boom. Shedding 20 years of flaked off skin cells, pet hair, and other anonymous elements. When it hit the floor, the couch knocked a lamp and table over, shattering the bulb and filling the half lit room with a mystery vapor that left a subtle film on the pile of presents beneath the tree. Did I mention it was Christmas Eve? At two in the BLESSED morning?

I came down the stairs in three giant steps. Around the corner. To find my family. Glowing. I hadn’t seen this look in so long. What was it? Glee. Bordering on hysteria. In stage whispers they bounced on top of each other trying to tell me their PLAN (they were trying to fix the couch so I wouldn’t be embarrassed in front of our guest) And how they didn’t think the drill would be LOUD (thus the piano) and didn’t know it would SMOKE (thus the open doors and windows). They were actually wiggling. Like when they were toddlers.

And I looked into my husband’s face. The fatigue and pain and sorrow were not erased. But he was smiling. Those teeth. His blue eyes. It reminded me of when we were dating. That smile is why I’m a mother. Twice.

And it seemed as if God was talking. Here on the birthday of his Son. Sometimes. A breakdown is long overdue. Sometimes the wisest thing in the long run is to give up the short race. The collapsing couch brought perspective on the wasteland of my spirit. I was reminded of Ezekiel’s field of bones. Mighty warriors, reduced to lifeless, garish rubble.

I sat on the broken couch. Propped up with wood screws. Shutting out pain and fear at the expense of joy was a suckers bet. I dragged my toes through the sawdust on the floor. And I cried out to the One who knows me best. “You promised me joy. Our deal was that I would give you ashes and you would give me beauty. Well. Where are you?”

“Have you given Me your ashes?”

What on earth? I don’t like middle of the night thinking. The question bothered me. Who would hang onto misery? Pain? Fear? I rolled my eyes in the dark. But the unsettling thought clamored around my cavernous heart. Jostling all the bones lying around in there. Shutdown is shutdown. Freezing the assets. Clamping off the heart. I don’t think I’d really given God anything. Because I was busy not telling him how ticked off I was that cancer and disease and brokenness and dying and death had rolled over my family while he DID NOTHING to stop it, despite the sweetest prayers ever prayed by hurting children.

Wow. Apparently there was some fight left in those bones. “Why would I give up my ashes when it feels like all I have left?”

“If your hands and heart are full, I can’t fill them.”

My ninja couch fixers had reminded me of what I had lost sight of – Joy. It exists. Furthermore, it is my birthright. Where had joy gone? Do pain and fear win? Sometimes yes. Sometimes pain and fear win. But only the short race.

In the dark, I begged the God of Christmas to breathe life into these stubborn, tired, ugly bones. Because even as I had held Him off, I knew He loved me. I knew He was good. He was faithful. Even at the lowest point, I felt him standing there. The problem was, I didn’t want His company in this venue. I wanted a freaking change of circumstance. But I’ve read His word backward and forward again. He never promised me that I could be God.

But He did promise me that sorrow might last for a night, but joy would come in the morning.


“Come like the four winds, Lord. Breathe life.”

I looked up just at the sky was turning from gray to pink. It sounds like I’m making this up, but it’s how it happened. Christmas morning came in the window.

Joy to the world.

And so, I have a plan for 2016.

I’m having a breakdown.

I’m not powering through. I’m walking slowly. I’m sad. I’m happy. I’m making space.

I’m living small. I’m letting the wind blow. I’m mourning. I’m celebrating. But mostly. I’m real.

I think the hardest part about being strong is knowing how and when to be weak. But I’m growing. And He’s making me stronger through my weakness. That’s how God works. Crazy train. If I’ve hurt you with my distance, please forgive me. I’m through with my sad sack-ness. I’m still sad, but I’m alive. And laughing. And goofing off. And wearing my crown of joy.

P.S. Our guest stayed in a hotel the next night. I am not making this up.
P.P.S. We spent too much money buying happiness during our sad Christmas, and so we are still sitting on our broken couch. But the couch is practically family. So that’s ok.
P.P.P.S. If you live in the South Sound and want to do Bible Study with me and bunch of real people- Please join us. Bring your gang. Starts March 3rd. I think it might be awesome. Because I can feel the wind.

Share and Enjoy

  1. Girlfriends’ Guide Upcyled Comments Off on Girlfriends’ Guide Upcyled
  2. Truth and Dares… Comments Off on Truth and Dares…
  3. Out of the Box Comments Off on Out of the Box
  4. Green Eggs and Purity: How NOT to Talk to Your Kid About the Birds and the Bees Comments Off on Green Eggs and Purity: How NOT to Talk to Your Kid About the Birds and the Bees
  5. Janu-cynical Comments Off on Janu-cynical
  6. Vacationing with Family and Other Oxymorons 1 Reply
  7. Does This Chicken Suit Come in Black? 3 Replies
  8. IRONy 2 Replies
  9. Angry at Christmas 3 Replies